Dancer
by intergalacticbooty
Summary: Dean Ambrose is an ex-ballet dancer living a content, but rather lonely life. At times his heart feels as abused, damaged, and ugly as his feet, but Roman Reigns comes into his life and shows him that isn't the case. Will contain foot fetishism.
1. Chapter 1

Not many people would know it at first glance, but Dean used to be a ballet dancer. A fantastic one, actually. He still did dance sometimes, when the mood struck and he had an evening to himself.

But he wasn't in a habit of abusing his already rough feet to fit into pointe shoes for a routine that truly would be perceived as strange for a man to perform. But it didn't matter to him, he was never into it for a profession or fame.

Or rather, he was never given a chance. A ruptured Achilles's tendon and shattered left ankle at the age of 17 sought to that. He could still perform a little, especially if he only wore traditional ballet slippers and for a short period of time, but pointe shoes provided him the weightlessness, the dreaminess that drew him to ballet as a child. He lacked the grace and elegance he once had, the only facade of is life that actually ever had any in it.

He could have been seen as a prodigy of sorts, only having access to ballet lessons because the local community center that his deadbeat mother dropped him off at had a volunteer every other weekend that taught it.

The woman saw his promise, saw all he had to offer dancing with worn, secondhand shoes he had managed to rummage out of a thrift store. He was only 6 then, but she still saw it. In hindsight Dean wished she saw the bullying he would endure from being dubbed a 'poor, dancing fag' in his adolescent years and the injury nine years later that would take him out of the game.

Dean was supposed to be performing on a grand stage for young, promising talent dancing on their own or with partners to audiences that came far and wide, all over the state of Ohio. Some recruiters were from New York City, too, looking for the next headliner for their promising musicals and dance performances.

He looked out of place, the only male performer there and his well-worn shoes and raggedy hair that his mentor tried to tame for nearly half an hour to no avail so wrong amongst the pretty fills of the girls around him. The looks that they gave him, same as the boys that shoved his face in toilets and ganged up on him after school. Icey glares that he shrugged off in time for his performance.

It was a beautiful piece, only accompanied by a single violin, meant to simulate a fight more than a dance. Dressed in nothing but a black leotard, a simple black sash hanging off his waist, wrist tape, and beige pointe shoes meant to simulate bare feet.

He was always a lithe individual, skin strewn over taught, slender muscles of his maturing body. Tall for his age, tall for any age really, and the curvature of his spine and the thinness of his waist that contrasts his broad shoulders. It all added to the beautiful and sensual, but powerful imagery his performance entailed.

It was the first and last time he would receive a standing ovation, bowing his head lowly as his heart hammered away at his chest. The crowd loved it, some of the recruiters had tears in their eyes. His mentor gave him a small bouquet of roses and he hugged him so tightly he thought his lungs might explode.

High off of adrenaline and excited from his performance, he stumbled into the smoke-ridden house he was forced to call home. Dean didn't bother changing out of his performing clothes, simply swapping his shoes out for basic converses. Dizzy with excitement and eagerness, hoping to show his mother the medal he had won, he was instead greeted with her current husband slash drug dealer slash asshole. They'd been together since Dean was 14, making sure any instance where he had to stay in the house for longer than 5 minutes was hellish.

Tonight was an exceptionally bad night, however.

A lot of it was hazy, fuzzy around the edges and only got worse and harder to recall as he Dean got older. Must've been from his head beginning banged into the kitchen table, his mother screaming in horror but doing truly nothing to help. He vaguely remembered being dragged up the stairs, being slammed against a few walls as he tried to kick and scream but his throat was being clenched and his legs were so exhausted from performing. "Faggot!" The man screamed over and over, burning the word into his brain.

And then he remembered the fall. Being knocked out of the second story of their skanky house. He landed on his feet, completely shattering one of his ankles and his biggest dream.

But he supposed that was in the past now. Thirteen years to be precise and Dean realized a new dream, having opened up a bookstore with a small loan from his previous mentor, Lita. He bought the entire building with what she had given him, living out of the modest upstairs apartment right above where he worked each day.

It was the only one in the small town he had settled into, so it ensured he had steady business. Enough to pay Lita back, enough to eat, and enough to live. He couldn't ask for more, really, although he considered himself a tad on the lonely side.

Then again, Dean Ambrose was almost always a loner. Always doing things solo and cool because it was how he was, he learned not to trust anyone or get too close to them. He still was apprehensive around Lita, even, because in his mind he wore out his welcome with her the day he got injured.

Being such a loner, either by practice or nature, Dean was accustomed to using the gym late at night when others had long since gone home. Tonight was a special night, though, because Dean wouldn't be running on the treadmill or lifting weights.

No, Dean had every intention of dancing tonight. One of those rare moods, something deep bubbled in his stomach as he turned on the lights in the gym's modest dance hall. One wall was made of mirrors, the other of glass so anyone walking by could look in. Another good reason to hit the gym late.

Then he placed his boom box and yes, he owned a boom box that took cassette tapes, and turned it on. It was a simple classical compilation, something he would only ever listen to while dancing. He shrugged off his hoodie and began to toe off his boots and socks. Left in nothing but a light pair of sweatpants that were a tad too short for him, hovering right above his ankles, and a tight tank top Dean began to drift into the music. He eased the ballet slippers onto his feet, not daring to try out with pointe after being out of practice for months upon months, and let the music guide him.

It was sloppy as all hell, obviously not worthy of a standing ovation and lacked in form and poise. But he still felt free, eyes sliding shut as the symphonies pulled his body along. He was so lost in the dance that he didn't dare open his eyes for several minutes, not wishing to shatter the movements. And Dean would have kept going, if he didn't feel eyes on him.

He landed slowly, feet flat on the ground as he made direct eye contact with a leering, wide silver gaze. The man was tall, possibly taller than Dean with mile wide shoulders and bronze skin. He had what Dean presumed was long hair tied back into a bun, a tribal tattoo covering one arm and shining with sweat.

This man had been watching his private performance, for how long he didn't know, but he seemed absolutely enraptured, eyes wide in wonder in a manner Dean hadn't seen in thirteen years. If Dean was being honest with himself, he had become enraptured that night as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Once the enrapturing gaze was broken, Dean decided to get the hell out of there. He didn't like having an audience anymore, didn't like the shame of how unpolished and crass his dancing was unless it was his own private show. He quickly turned around, making his way to the boom box to stop the music.

Except a particular spot of the floor had been finely polished, to the point of slippery, and Dean slid on his bad leg, falling instantly to the ground to make sure it wasn't injured more. It still hurt like hell, though, and the dancer let out a loud groan. "Fuck!" He hissed, bending his leg up to cradle his ankle.

Before he could even regain his composure, however, he heard the dance hall door's open. Dean curled into himself the, not really eager about some random stranger with strangely silver eyes and a tendency to apparently spy coming to his aid.

"Jesus, man I'm sorry…are you alright?" He smelled like clean sweat, must have broken it while presumably using the gym's others services. It was a heady sort of musk, manly and pertinent and for some reason it made Dean's head spin. Or maybe it was because that strong jaw and striking features were mere inches from his own face, drawn down in concern.

"I-I'm fine…ya just startled me is all, heh." Dean stared down at his ankle, trying to rub at the muscles there to make it relax, but the tightness and aching of it hardly began to dissipate. "Not used to peepin' toms, y'know?" He said it playfully, tongue sticking out between his teeth before he winced, shifting his other leg around.

"I'm sorry, I, uh…" God, even with the nervous stammering, this guy's voice was hot as hell. Deeper than Dean's, but cool and slick without a rough edge about him. It was more than a little tantalizing. "God, dude, your ankle looks swollen…" The stranger breathed out, looking rather shocked.

It was something that happened whenever Dean decided to dance a little, the bone's fracture and muscles and tendons around it that never quite healed properly experienced a lot of irritation. It would usually go down after a few hours, but it was a rather gross sight to see. "'s okay, dude, it happens…"

"Let me get you some ice, okay?" It was said rather panicked, that massively wide frame, such a huge contrast to Dean's own lithe one, standing up on teetering legs before he rushed out of the dance hall and called back. "Don't try to stand on it!"

Dean snorted at that, but after looking back down at now puffy it was he decided a little bit of icing might help it go down. And maybe if he talked to this dude he could find out his workout schedule and never, ever dance here when he might be around. It just filled him with dread, thinking of those piercing and tantalizing eyes taking in his pathetic mockery of the skills he once had.

He wasn't lost in his thoughts for too long, the handsome man returning mere moments later with a towel wrapped in ice, what looked like gauze of some sort, tape, and a bottle of water. He shoved the water into Dean's hand before gently reaching towards Dean's leg. "Is it alright if I…look?"

"Something's tellin' me you're gonna be doin' more than looking, pal." He meant to say it with a bite, but it just came out as flirty. "Why should I trust you, huh? First you're peepin' on me and now you're trying to grope me."

"Hey, hey, it's not like that." He said it rather quickly, more humorous than defensive as he scooted next to Dean. "I'm an EMT is all…just wanna make sure you didn't do any serious damage. I'd feel guilty if you did and it was on account of my 'peepin''." He smiles then, gently, taking Dean's offered up leg into his grasp, feeling around at the tender flesh. "I'm Roman, by the way. Roman Reigns."

What a fitting name for a man that looked like an ancient god. Someone who would have inspired statutes and odes to the beauty of nature.

"Dean Ambrose. Nice to meet ya, Ro." Roman seemed to smile at the quickly earned nickname, but his express grew serious when Dean let out a small noise, wincing when a tender spot was touched. "Hmm, probably just a really light sprain." He laid the makeshift ice pack on Dean's flesh then. The smaller male hissed, but he couldn't argue the fact that it did seem to make the ankle feel a tad better.

"Thanks." Dean said softly as he lulled his head back, his heart rate seeming to slip down as the EMT let go of his ankle. "Seriously…'s feelin' better already."

"You should drink that water I gave you. Might help the swelling go down…usually doesn't get that extreme unless you're dehydrated or retaining water weird." Roman shifted, sitting next to Dean with a small smile.

"That was…what you did...it was really beautiful." Roman said after a moment, looking a little guilty as he did, but sounding rather breathless. "Never seen a ballerina in person."

Dean snorted at that, because if Roman thought that was somehow beautiful, he must have never seen a real ballerina. "I'm actually a ballerino, on account of me bein' a dude. But, uh, let's just say I'm outta practice." He didn't like to self-wallow and he didn't want sympathy for his forgotten dreams.

Roman simply hummed in understanding and interest.

Then they sat in comfort silence for a several moments, Roman checking on the swelling ever so often while Dean swigged the water back. It was strange, just sitting there in the presence of another. He was so used to seclusion and solidarity. Being next to someone, even in silence, was quite nice.

After Roman checked it the fifth time, he took the towel off and began to bandage Dean's ankle up nice and tight. "I think you've gotten all the use out of the ice you can for now." He commented, continuing his work on compressing it. "Just keep it bandaged up overnight. If the swelling still hasn't gone down significantly by morning, then ice it for an hour or two. And I'd recommend not putting too much strain on this ankle for a week or two."

"Guess no point in having this one, then." He rolled his eyes to himself, snorting as he leaned forward to slide off his ballet shoes. It was strange, in that moment though, because as he revealed his feet to the world a strange glint fell over Roman's eyes. One that bleed of concern and seriousness, but a daring flick of his tongue over his bottom lip almost read as arousal. But that was ridiculous to think. Dean's feet were a mess, not completely disfigured, but years of dancing followed by over a decade of a slight limp left him with odd bumps and callouses here and there. Not anything pleasant to behold. "Yeah, I know, 's pretty grody to look at." A small chuckle then, but Roman simple shook his head, vision seeming to flash up at the ceiling to try and look anywhere but Dean.

"Listen, uh…did you drive here?"

"Nah, rode my bike." He said nonchalantly as he slid his boots back on, not bothering with his socks. He staggered to his feet then, finding it bizarre at how easy it was for him to accept Roman's offered arm for balance.

"I…I feel bad about this whole thing, dude." Roman began, helping Dean to gather up his belongings and make his exit out of the dancing hall. This close to him, Dean could smell his heavy musk even stronger, curling something deep in his stomach. "How about I give you a ride home?"

"Sure."

"And take you out for lunch sometime? You pick the place…don't know much around here since I moved only about a week ago. All my treat?" Dean wasn't one to accept offers from strangers, but the way this man had treated him tonight, looked at him with a strange level of reverence. He was agreeing before he had even fully processed the offer.

They made arrangements as Roman drove Dean home, the EMT helping carry things like his bike and boom box into his nearly pitch black storefront. Only one light was on, just enough for someone passing by the street to be guided by its soft stream.

"This is all yours?" Roman gawked in surprise as he placed down the boom box and bike where Dean had asked him. "Didn't even know this town had a bookstore. It's…cool."

Dean was glad for the mostly dark store then or else Roman might have seen how pink his ears were becoming. After everything was settled in, Dean thanked him again and Roman apologized for probably the 80th time that night. They reaffirmed their plans and Dean locked the store up as Roman made his way back into his truck.

The former dancer tried not to let giddiness overtake him. But it was difficult, difficult not to think of those glittering eyes that matched the hue of the moon, those plump lips that spoke so sweetly to him in a deep octave, those hands that felt so gentle and support against his pained flesh. He failed miserably, of course, because as he laid in his bed after shrugging off all but his briefs, he could feel is cock getting hard.

He was pretty sure it was rude conduct to jerk oneself off to the thought of someone they just met. Little did he know, he had left his socks in Roman's truck that night. And he was quite even lesser aware to the fact that innocent stranger was fisting his own cock, said socks shoved against his nose as he tried to immerse himself in the scent of those talented feet.


End file.
